I know, I have always been jealous of my own musical faculty (I can write music).—­Now that I see the uselessness of such jealousy, and am for loosing and letting it go, it may be cramped possibly.  Your music is more various and exquisite than any modern writer’s to my ear.  One should study the mechanical part of the art, as nearly all that there is to be studied—­for the more one sits and thinks over the creative process, the more it confirms itself as ‘inspiration,’ nothing more nor less.  Or, at worst, you write down old inspirations, what you remember of them ... but with that it begins.  ‘Reflection’ is exactly what it names itself—­a re-presentation, in scattered rays from every angle of incidence, of what first of all became present in a great light, a whole one.  So tell me how these lights are born, if you can!  But I can tell anybody how to make melodious verses—­let him do it therefore—­it should be exacted of all writers.

You do not understand what a new feeling it is for me to have someone who is to like my verses or I shall not ever like them after!  So far differently was I circumstanced of old, that I used rather to go about for a subject of offence to people; writing ugly things in order to warn the ungenial and timorous off my grounds at once.  I shall never do so again at least!  As it is, I will bring all I dare, in as great quantities as I can—­if not next time, after then—­certainly.  I must make an end, print this Autumn my last four ‘Bells,’ Lyrics, Romances, ‘The Tragedy,’ and ‘Luna,’ and then go on with a whole heart to my own Poem—­indeed, I have just resolved not to begin any new song, even, till this grand clearance is made—­I will get the Tragedy transcribed to bring—­

‘To bring!’ Next Wednesday—­if you know how happy you make me! may I not say that, my dear friend, when I feel it from my soul?

I thank God that you are better:  do pray make fresh endeavours to profit by this partial respite of the weather!  All about you must urge that:  but even from my distance some effect might come of such wishes.  But you are better—­look so and speak so!  God bless you.

R.B.

You let ‘flowers be sent you in a letter,’ every one knows, and this hot day draws out our very first yellow rose.

E.B.B. to R.B.

Monday.
[Post-mark, June 17, 1845.]

Yes, I quite believe as you do that what is called the ’creative process’ in works of Art, is just inspiration and no less—­which made somebody say to me not long since; And so you think that Shakespeare’s ‘Othello’ was of the effluence of the Holy Ghost?’—­rather a startling deduction, ... only not quite as final as might appear to somebodies perhaps.  At least it does not prevent my going on to agree with the saying of Spiridion, ... do you remember?...  ’Tout ce que l’homme appelle inspiration, je l’appelle aussi revelation,’ ... if there is not something too self-evident in it after